


Time And Time Again

by Call_Me_Mrs_Rogers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, IDK how to tag stufffff, Old-Fashioned Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Being A Lil Bean, The Return Of Miranda!, This is fuuuuuuun, XD XD XD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Me_Mrs_Rogers/pseuds/Call_Me_Mrs_Rogers
Summary: Fresh out of the ice, Steve knows absolutely no-one in a world that’s left him behind. When he goes to seek comfort in the old, he may just find something new.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader
Kudos: 11





	1. Introduction

Hi Guys!

Welcome to my new work, _Time And Time Again._

In this I wanted to explore Steve's side of things so it's gonna be mostly from his perspective. I wanted to show that people are too hard on ol' Stevie, the world has literally left him behind and he deserves some love for the shit he's been through. Hence, this. 

From my other book I've really grown to love Miranda Hartley, who shares a surname with someone I know, so I thought I why not add her in here?

This is gonna be a little different from books I've written before (in a good way, I hope) and I hope you all enjoy it!

Love you all,

-Cece <3


	2. Description Of Miranda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A description of Miss Miranda Hartley.

**Basic Information:**

**Name:** Miranda Hartley

 **Age:** 25

 **Ethnicity:** Part Canadian, Part Indian, Part British

 **Nationality:** British

 **Nicknames:** Mir, Mira

 **Best Friend:** Hanifa Santos

 **Ex-Boyfriend:** Gideon Sanchez

 **Parents:** Liam Hartley, Camille Hartley

 **Career:** Newly appointed CEO of _The Hub_ \- A journalistic company. 

**Description:**

**Hair:** Long, Dark Brown, Mix of Wavy and Straight

 **Eyes:** Hazel, Feline 

**Height:** Short

 **Skin Colour:** Light Copper

**Note From Miranda:** Hi! I'm Miranda Hartley. You may recognise the name as CEO of journalistic company, _The Hub._ That's right, my boss recently quit and I was just lucky enough to be promoted. My life's been rather boring until now, let's just be honest, and that includes my dating life. I'm a huge romantic and I've always felt that if you love someone you just _know,_ and you'll spend the rest of your lives together. At one point I had that, with my boyfriend Gideon, but it that relationship ended as most do, in heartbreak and loneliness. After that I just didn't have it in me to put myself back out there so I've been alone since and I'm okay with that. I'm willing to wait as long as it takes for my Prince Charming to walk through that door because I am a goddess and I deserve nothing less. _Okay, maybe I've been reading to many self-help books._


	3. Memories Of The Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't know how to cope with his loss.

When the initial shock and adrenaline wore off, I found myself aimlessly wandering the streets, feeling a deep sense of loss. Everything I’ve ever known has already been and now… well now I don’t belong in this new world with its colourful moving signs and loud city noise. Everything was… different. 

A new thought hits me like a wall... _everyone I know is dead_. 

Feeling a new wave of grief settle over me, my vision blurs and my feet move of their own accord as thoughts swirl around my head. When I come to a stop, I’m entirely surprised over where I’ve ended up, facing my house. _My old house,_ a voice reminds me, making me frown. 

Walking a little closer, I see that all the lights are off in the house and there isn’t any evidence that anyone has lived here recently, a layer of dust covers the doorknob. Thinking that it won’t do any harm, I walk left and find the rickety old porch swing, exactly how I left it save two initials scratched into the wood. I peer a little closer to read it, _MH+G._ A small smile lifts the corners of my lips as I picture a young couple on the swing, chatting and kissing and laughing. The smile is immediately washed away when the first few drops of rain splatter on the floor. Seeing as the swing is under an overhanging roof of sorts, I sit down on it, one leg dangling over the side to push myself, and stare into space. 

For what seems like the longest time I push all thoughts out of my head and gaze at the willowing oak tree that encompasses the left side of the house. It’s pleasant with no mind, a peaceful escape. 

Until I hear a cough from beside me. Whipping my head to the left, I scramble off the swing and stand rigid opposite a baffled young lady. “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice British and silky. Her posture radiates confidence and her velvet hair falls around her shoulders elegantly. I know I shouldn’t mention it, but her curves are accentuated in a tight, black, formal dress. Her eyes are open and kind and I’m drawn into them, I feel an urge to confess my whole life to her. “Sir?”

“Oh,” I say, snapping back to the moment. “Sorry, ma’am. This is my old house.” I explain, rubbing the back of my neck as the rain starts to soak her. When she notices she takes a step forward so she’s covered, her body suddenly close to mine. My heart jumps in my chest as she tilts her head slightly. 

“Nobody’s lived here for 50 years before me,” she tells me, her eyes narrowing in understandable suspicion. 

I sigh, _so they’ve been gone for 50 years, huh? What year does that make this?_ I decide to ask the woman. “What year is it, ma’am?”

The suspicion vanishes to be replaced by concern. “2011,” she answers. I curse under my breath and look down. “Are you okay?” she asks softly. 

“Fine, ma’am. I’m real sorry ‘bout this,” I apologise. “I did used to live here, a long time ago. It’s a long story but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll be out of your hair now.”

I go to move away but she grabs my wrist to stop me. “You don’t have anywhere to go?” she asks. I shake my head and she chews on her lip, considering something. “You should come inside, it’s freezing out here.”

“I couldn’t do that, ma’am,” I refuse, knowing that decorum should come first when speaking with a lady, especially one as beautiful as she. 

“I’m afraid I must insist,” she presses, a smile slipping onto her lips. “You’ll catch you’re death out there.” Again opening my mouth to protest, I am stopped when she opens the front door and pulls me inside. “My name’s Miranda, by the way,” she tells me into the darkness. 

“Steve Rogers,” I reply, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She flicks on the light and for the first time I can see all of her and _my God she is beautiful._


	4. To Know Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is entranced by the kind stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors often write from experience and, while I unfortunately can't say I've met Steve Rogers, I can say that Miranda, her life, her family, her interests and her personality are all based on me and my life. I think that's why I've found such a connection with her, because she's a fictional, nicer, kinder version of me.

Sitting on the couch, I watch Miranda walk back in, wearing a black tank top and tartan pyjama pants, a blanket thrown over her shoulders and another in her arms. Her face just about peeks out above the mountainous blanket and she gives me a cute little grin before dropping it on my lap and sitting beside me. “Here you go,” she says loudly, a proud smile on her face. 

“Thanks, doll,” I answer without thinking. Her face lights up but quickly grows serious. 

“I shouldn’t like that, I don’t know this guy,” she mutters to herself, thinking that I can’t hear her. 

“You could get to know me?” I suggest, chuckling when she looks up, surprised. 

“You heard that?” she asks, to which I nod. “Oh, well it’s true. You could be a rapist for all I know. A criminally handsome rapist,” she adds, biting her lip and looking down, pink dusting her cheeks.  _ God, she’s adorable. _

“Well,” I start, “My name’s Steven Grant Rogers and I work,  _ worked,  _ in the army,” I tell her. 

“How come you stopped?” she asks, before shaking her head. “Sorry, that was rude. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I kinda do… I’m in your house,” I point out. She laughs, a velvety, rich sound that makes my heart pound. “This is gonna be hard to explain and weird for you to hear, but…” With that I go on to explain everything, from being the scrawny kid from Brooklyn to the day I crashed the plane. I talk about Dr Erskine and the serum and Peggy. I tell her every detail I can think of about Bucky, about his endless parades of dates, his secret admires, his boyish charm, how he always,  _ always,  _ had my back, and finally about the day he died. I spill my whole life story to this total stranger and it feels so good. So good because she doesn’t judge me, or mock me, she just listens. Something about her soft, young spirit makes me feel at ease around her and I’m just so…  _ grateful.  _

Once I finish talking, she waits a second before speaking. “Wow.”

I laugh lightly, rubbing the back of my neck. “I know.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean,  _ wow!” _

Okay, now I’m slightly confused. What’s she wowing at? Before I can ask, she says, “I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you!”

“What?” I say, manners flying out the window in the face of shock. “What do you mean?”

“Captain America, right?” she asks, getting up and walking around the couch to a bookshelf. 

“Yeah?” I answer, still not understanding how she knows that. 

“This,” she returns with a book held delicately in her hands, crossing her legs. “This is the diary of a Mr Hartley.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar and a second later it hits me. “Wait, Jim Hartley?” I ask.

“My grandfather,” she answers, a fond smile playing on her lips. “He was a good man, did you know him well?”

“He was my neighbour,” I tell her. “Actually he was the neighbour to this house.”

“I know,” she winks conspiratorially. “Pops wrote about you all the time. He always said that you were a charming young fellow, even before the serum. I think I agree. But anyway, he did these drawings, drawings of people he saw in his every day life and when he passed away a few years back I would study them for hours. I honestly can’t believe I didn’t recognise you. Here, look.”

She held the book out to me and I took it from her. Staring back at me was a detailed charcoal drawing of post-serum me walking down the road beside Bucky, my lips parted mid-laugh and his curled up in a smile. Somehow he’d captured the way Bucky’s cheeks rose when he smiled and how my hair was tousled by the wind. I remember that day. We’d just come back from another failed double date on my part and we’d wandered the streets for an hour or so after they’d left, talking between ourselves about the deep and the light, about everything and nothing. As we’d walked down the street we’d seen a cat who’s squished face made it look perpetually grump and we’d laughed the whole way home. God, I miss him. 

Flicking through the pages, I see other drawings interspersed in paragraphs of writing. I smile as I recognise various figures from the neighbourhood. There’s Mrs Blones, the baker, there’s Mr Hutchins, the Butcher, and little Archie, their son. 

I look up at Miranda to see her chewing her lip and smiling. “You can keep it if you want,” she tells me. 

“I couldn’t possibly,” I refuse, but she closes the book and gently pushes it towards me. 

“Please,” she murmurs. “Take it, I’ve gone though it a million times.” 

I waver for a moment but she gives me an encouraging smile so I pull it close to my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper. She can’t possibly know how much this means to me but the twinkle in her eye tells me otherwise. “So you know all about me,” I say with a smile, raising one eyebrow. 

“You really wanna know about me?” 

I nod emphatically and when she smiles, a stab of something resembling joy. That I made her smile? That can’t be right, I only just met her. Then again her smile  _ is  _ adorable, especially paired with a meek, “I’m not that interesting.”

“Sure you are,” I argue, nudging her lightly in the side. 

She lifts one shoulder and pulls a pillow close to her chest. Something about her eyes drew me into her. Though the rest of her posture was relaxed and calm her eyes glowed like embers. “Okay, where should I start?” she mutters to herself before looking back up at me. “When I was 12 I got a dog.” This statement is so bizarrely random that I can’t help cracking a smile. She grins back and brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “When I was 12 I got a dog and I loved her like the sister I never had. Though, sidenote, I actually do have two older sisters. Anyway, my parents… well they’re something. My dad is angry all of the time so my mum’s constantly exhausted. They both agreed when I was 10 and when my sisters were 14 and 17 that we couldn’t have a dog. That was, what… 15 years ago? Yeah, I think so.”

_ So she’s 25? And I’m basically 27 so it’s only a 2 year gap, that’s fine, right? She’s looking at you. Why is she looking at you?  _

“You okay?” she asks, and I notice that I’m leaning way closer to her than a gentleman should. 

Moving back, I utter a quick, “Sorry, ma’am,” the name slipping out due to embarrassment. 

“It’s… it’s okay,” she murmurs softly, tilting her head as if trying to puzzle me out. “Okay, well they never gave us a reason as to why they didn’t want a dog but we all knew it was because neither of them wanted to pay for it. It’s not just the actual dog, it’s the food, the health checks, the toys, everything. And now,” she laughs softly. “Well now’s the part where I admit that I have the best sister in the world. The oldest one, Aurora her name is, went to university soon after that and she also got a job. It was my 12th birthday when she came home with this great cardboard box with holes at the top,” she smiles fondly to herself at the memory and I can’t help hoping that at some point in her life she’ll smile like that when she remembers me. “When mum and dad were arguing like the world depending on their inherent hatred of each other, we snuck upstairs and huddled on my bed. Rory opened the box and this tiny little Beagle was bundled in the corner, her big eyes staring up at me, and I swear those eyes hold the universe.”

Her words strike me as poetic and I have to know why so I ask her. 

She laughs silkily once again and I realise that she’s seems like a very content person. Not necessarily happy, more like she’s accepted her lot in life and is ready to get on with it despite her hurdles, which I know everyone has. “There’s a reason for that,” she promises, “and I’ll get to it. But for now it’s extremely important that you understand how adorable little Poppy was, because oh my  _ Lord,  _ I love this dog. She’s actually, well she should be at Shirley’s right now, but she would be here.”

“Shirley?” I ask, thrown by the introduction of another person. 

“My other sister,” she explains, nodding to herself. “The point of this story is that I’ve been through some shit in my time but I’m so grateful to have Pops, she’s my fluffy, cuddly rock… I just realised that I just told a really long winded, pointless story, sorry about that.” She lets out a little laugh. “Okay, some actual things about me. My name’s Miranda Rose Hartley and I’m 25 years old. I graduated from Bath university a couple of years ago and went straight into an internship for a company called The Hub. You won’t know it but it’s a journalistic company with newspapers and TV shows and stuff like that. I really loved my job there and I was happy to just be patient and move up in the ranks. For the past year I’ve been COO and chief editor and I was living in this crappy little apartment downtown. Everyday I would go past this house on my morning run and I would think about how beautiful it is and how it was such a shame that no-one lived here. About three weeks ago they announced that it was going to be demolished along with the neighbouring houses to make way for some flats and it was a stroke of luck that my boss quit that same week and I was next in line for CEO. After I’d got my first check I decided, hell, let’s just do it, let’s buy the house. So, yeah. I’ve been living here for about two weeks and it gets a little lonely sometimes but I like it here. That’s me, I guess,” she finishes with a half smile. 

I’m about to say something, hopefully to make her laugh, when the doorbell rings. Shooting me and apologetic smile, she shoots up and glides, and I mean  _ glides,  _ to answer the door. Upon her opening it, I immediately hear the enthusiastic bark of a dog happy to see its owner. Curious, I stand and peer around the corner to see Miranda on her knees, ruffling the fur of a joyful Beagle dog. Still kneeling, she looks up at a figure concealed by the door and grins. I can’t quite hear the conversation but the distinct sound of your laughter echoes towards me, warming my chest with a fuzzy sensation. Seeing her stand to embrace the figure, presumably Shirley, I dart back to my seat just in time to hear the door close and elegant footsteps paired with more scurried ones. Miranda’s face is the first thing to appear but she’s not looking at me, she’s gazing lovingly at her dog, who hops in a moment later. 

“This,” she says, flicking her eyes to me, “is Poppy.”


	5. The Kindness Of A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds himself unable to sleep but the morning brings a little sun into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice, first of all, quite a few famous quotes, and, secondly, that Steve is quiet and reserved. The explanation is that I'm in the process of shaping Steve's character in my own way, making him into the version of himself between movies that wasn't shown.   
> I've always wondered about how hard it must've been for him to adjust to this extreme change, and know that if I were in that position I definitely be reserved as I tried to settle in.   
> Anyway, enough of my rambling, I hope you enjoy.

Fragments of moon light shine into the room, casting shadows on the walls. Sitting hunched on the windowsill, I bite my lips as I survey the room that used to be mine. I can’t say that its changed much, it’s just as empty as when I lived here, Miranda told me that she had plans to make this into a guest room. It makes sense that it looks so bare, I guess, in all the years I lived here, the only thing I personalised the room with was a framed american flag sat on the bedside table, the corners curling behind the glass. I still don’t quite understand why she left that but didn’t think to ask her when she came to check that all was okay. 

When night fell Miranda insisted that I stay, declaring that the house was too big for one person. Of course I’d refused for as long as I could but it’s not like I had anywhere else to go, so I agreed to sleep here. What can I say? Sometimes you just have to give in to the kindness of a stranger.

Though sleep would be a blessing. Instead I’m curled up on the windowsill, feeling small and stupid, even more so than when I was a sickly teenager. I just can’t get my head around it, time kept moving even when I didn’t and now… well now I’m a man out of time. 

For hours I stare out at the city, tired but unable to quiet the hurricane in my head. I’m awake long enough to watch the sunrise, blush pink dancing the tango with lilac, burnt orange flicking into the mix, creating a beautiful spread across the morning canvas. 

A soft humming interrupts my musings and, curious, I move off the windowsill and rub my eyes, only now feeling the exhaustion set in. Admittedly feeling a little disgusting in clothes that I’ve worn for decades, I wander into the connecting bathroom ad find a blue silk bathrobe hanging from a peg. Running my fingers across it, I marvel at the softness of the material, something that I’d never have been able to own in my day, though something tells me that they aren’t so expensive now. I take a quick shower, using too many products due to fascination and curiosity, and slip into the robe, tying it around my waist and using a nearby towel (why is everything so damn fluffy?!) to dry my hair somewhat. 

When I emerge from the bathroom the soft humming has progressed into song that I don’t recognise. As I walk into the kitchen, the smell of cooking batter reaches me and the song progresses into a chorus. Standing there with a spatula as a microphone is Miranda, belting the words to the song as she nods along, her hair flying out of it’s bun. The movement of her hips is mesmerising and I have to exert some willpower to stop staring and walk over. 

“Good morning,” I say, coming to stand beside her. 

Her shoulders jump in surprise and she spins around, a smile curling the corners of her lips as she puts down the spatula. “Morning, sweetheart,” she chirps. “Did you sleep okay? The heating shut off last night and I couldn’t get it back on again.” She turns back to the stove to flip the pancake onto the plate. 

“I slept… well,” I lie, shoving my hands in my pockets and scuffing my feet along the floor like I used to do way back when. As if able to hear my dishonesty, she spins around, points her spatula and parts her lips. Instead of speaking, though, she laughs silkily, looking down my body and back up, making me buzz pleasantly. “What?” I ask, confused. 

“Why are you wearing my bathrobe?” she questions teasingly, prodding my arm with the end of her cooking utensil. 

My skin flushes red from tip to toe, though my embarrassment is lessened by the grin playing on her lips. “I… uh, didn’t have anything else to wear and my clothes… well they’re old.”

“If you needed something you could’ve just asked,” she tells me, starting to walk away. Not sure if she wants me to follow, I stay where I am until she turns around and gestures that I should go with her. She leads me through the corridor and to a bedroom that used to be ma’s but must now belong to her. It’s fitting, really, they’re both generous, kind women. Is that weird? To be comparing her to my mother?

Shaking my head to myself, I follow her into the room and sit on the bed when she suggests that I do. She opens her wardrobe and I catch a glimpse of vibrant, modern colours before she blocks my view to fish something out of it. “I should have… right about… hmm, no not that…,” she murmurs to herself, searching for something specific. “Oh, here they are!” she exclaims triumphantly, turning around and holding out sweats and a t-shirt. 

“Thanks,” I say, taking them from her. I examine the clothing and see that both look worn and threadbare. 

“Sorry about the quality,” she apologises, sweeping hair from her eyes. 

“Who’s are they?” I ask before I can stop myself. 

As I open my mouth to apologise she smiles fondly. “A guy called Gideon left them here and never asked for them back. He’s a… friend.” She says the last word with her head bowed, twiddling her thumbs. 

“Oh,” I say for lack of anything else. 

“He… well he won’t be coming back for it, so you can have ‘em,” she tells me, looking back up and smiling.

“Thanks again,” I say and she nods before exiting the room so I can change. 

A few minutes later I come back out to find Miranda sitting at the dining table, scribbling in a notepad with a mug in her hand and a plate of pancakes in front of her. An identical plate sits opposite and, without looking up, she claims, “That’s for you. Sorry if I’m being rude, I just really have to get this done.”

Nodding even though she can’t see me, I slide into the chair and start on the pancakes, using the delicate cutlery she’d laid out for me. Not wanting to disturb her, and not sure of what to say, I eat in silence until she exhales loudly and puts down her pen. Her eyes flick up to mine, a twinkle dancing in her brown irises. “Look out.”

A moment later I understand her warning as Poppy the beagle bounds onto my lap, her tail slapping my left thigh as she settles down across my legs. Hesitantly, I lay a hand against her fur, feeling a smile pull at me lips when she arches into my palm. Something about holding something alive and fluffy can warm a person’s soul. My Miranda watches with amusement as she packs away her stuff, sliding it into a black satchel beside her chair.

“You know, my sister always says that you can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals,” she tells me in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. 

Meeting her eyes, I catch a glimmer of something that I can’t name but makes my heart jump. “That’s… a nice sentiment,” I reply, stroking the dog in my lap. “Bucky used to say that the world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love as unconditionally as a dog. And you,” I say, now addressing the dog, “you are just adorable, aren’t you old girl?” Poppy nudges her nose into my palm and I scratch behind her ear. 

“I love dogs,” I murmur, not sure if she’s actually listening. “They live in the moment and don't care about anything except affection and food. They're loyal and happy. Humans are just too damn complicated.”

“Definitely,” she agrees, and at the sound of her normal voice, Poppy delicately leaps off me to instead settle at Miranda’s feet. “This one’s especially loyal. We’ve been together our whole lives, haven’t we Pops?” 

Poppy wags her tail and pants her agreement, making me laugh and Miranda smiles. “Between you and me,” Miranda stage whispers, cupping one hand around her mouth. “She’s old for a Beagle. I’m grateful every day that she’s still here with me. That… that sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing you say could ever be strange,” I blurt before I can think better of it. Though my heart warms with pleasure when her cheeks tint a delightfully attractive pink. 

“I… thank you.”


	6. Pencil Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon of sun brings a sketch of many words.

The delicate chill of the evening breeze whispers through the branches of the willow tree I’m sat under. My hand guides the languid movements of the pencil on the page. One of the most satisfying things is using grayscale to draw a technicolor image, for example the setting sun casting shadows across the garden before me. Did I leave out the beautiful woman flipping pages of a book and swinging in a hammock? 

As though able to sense that I’m thinking about her, Miranda lifts her head and smiles at me from across the grass, her eyes shining brighter than a thousand stars. When she turns back to  _ Beautiful Broken Things,  _ a piece of hair falls into her eyes but she doesn’t bother brushing it away, too absorbed in the words laid out before her eyes. 

So I draw her exactly like that, one dainty ankle crossed over the other, the sleeves of her floral dress flaring out, strands of hair flying from her ponytail. 

For almost an hour I lose myself in making the marks come to life. In fact, I’m so consumed that I don’t notice that my muse has hopped off her seat and is now peering over my shoulder. 

“Who’s that?” she asks, making me jump and turn the sketchbook over, covering the drawing. 

“You can’t guess?” I reply as she sits cross-legged opposite me in the grass, only now noticing the strands of her in her eyes and brushing them to the side. 

“Hmm,” she hums, “an ex-girlfriend?”

The laughter escapes my lips despite myself and I shake my head. “Nope, not had one,” I tell her, trying not to be too pleased when her eyes widen in astonishment. 

“No way,” she exclaims, nudging me with her knee. “A good-looking lad like you?”

“I wasn’t the most attractive guy back then,” I explain, looking down, ashamed. 

Her slender fingers tap my knee and I look up again. “There must’ve been one woman who found you cute at least?” She cocks her head to the side in a way that’s both inquisitive and compassionate. 

“Well… I mean… I don’t think she counts,” I frown, thinking about Peggy. Sure, she was undoubtedly attractive lady who showed a limited amount of interest, but does that qualify her as a candidate for “ex” status? Surely not. Besides, I know from Bucky that discussing an old crush in front of a new one is not the way to entice a lady. 

“Oh,” she exhales, unfolding her legs to lean back on her palms. “So who is it?” she repeats. 

“It’s you,” I answer simply, shrugging though I’m the opposite of nonchalant. 

A silky laugh flows from her pink lips until she sees my face and snaps her mouth shut. “It can’t be,” she argues, reaching for the pad again. “Definitely not,” she claims decisively, her eyes roaming the drawing. “This woman’s much to pretty.”

“People say,” I begin, my voice far too uncertain for my liking. I clear my throat and start again. “People say that a drawing is a reflection of the artist’s perception of the world, that they’re not capturing an image, they’re interpreting it.” 

Immediately her eyes shoot up to meet mine and though no words are said, I understand her perfectly. 


	7. Until Proven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a situation arises, Steve steps up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do comment, you have no idea how much I adore getting feedback for my work.

Wandering into the kitchen as the morning light streaks the room, I rub my eyes, feeling something trapped between my eyelids. “Good morning,” I say, blinking to rid the dust from my iris. 

No reply. 

“Miranda?” I call, only now noticing the eerie quiet surrounding me. Realising that she might still be asleep, I sigh at my apprehension and walk down the hall towards her room. Though I’m still a few metres away, I can tell something’s ff and when I jog over to her room I know why. Not only is the door wide open and the space empty, her bed is unmade and her curtains are closed, two things that are very un-Miranda, a fact that I know despite only meeting her a week ago. Piercing the silence, a shrill, constant beeping catches my attention and I rush to the living room where the sound is coming from. A small black, plastic shape hasa small flashing red light and what looks like a thin version of a phone sticks out of it. Going over, I press the button that says  _ answer  _ and hesitantly bring it to my ear. 

“Hello?”

“Steve, hi, thank God you picked up,” a distorted voice answers. 

“Who is this?” I ask, surprised that the phone has no cord. 

“Miranda,” she replies, and instantly the voice becomes recognisable. “I wasn’t sure if you’d know how to answer the phone but I needed to let you know that I’m down at the police station.”

Shock ripples through me but I try to tamp it down with the reasoning that she could be a witness or something. “How come?”

“They think I was involved in some kind of robbery? I’m not completely sure but they arrested me this morning,” she tells me, and I can just about hear a well-disguised trembling in her voice.

“I’m coming down there,” I claim, already grabbing my coat and out of the door before she can object. 

“Thank you so much, Stevie,” she gushes. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Uh,” I stop mid step, spinning around and going back into the house. “No.”

“Oh Steve,” she laughs softly, thought there’s still a trace of exhaustion. “Okay, well it’s literally down the road. Come out of the house and go left. Follow the street all the way to the end and take another left. It’s right on the corner.”

“Left, straight, left,” I clarify, grabbing a pen and scribbling the instructions down. “I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” she says, before a background voice speaks and she hangs up. 

After putting the phone back in it’s holder, I leave the house again and walk left for about two minutes until the road ends and I take another left. As told, the police office is right there, an imposing white building that reminds me of a hospital. I jog up to the door and slow as I walk in, nodding politely to a pair of policemen by the left wall. Surveying the room, I spot the reception desk on the right and walk over, plastering a smile on my lips for the woman behind the counter. “Hi there,” I greet. 

She looks up and her eyes widen a fraction, looking over my body and back to my eyes. “Hello, how can I help you?”

“My friend asked me to come down,” I tell her. “They’ve been arrested.”

“What’s his name, honey,” she asks, her fingers poised over her keyboard. 

“ _ Her  _ name is Miranda Hartley,” I say, not missing the way her eyes narrow at the pronoun. 

The clicking of her typing fills the otherwise silent room and I look away from the receptionist. I notice that the room is bare other than a few vases of drooping flowers. Artificial light spills from fluorescent beams across the ceiling and everyone in sight has a purposeful accent to their actions, whether that be filling out forms on a clipboard or striding forwards to speak to somebody. The whole aura of the building makes me feel out of place, too bulky for the perfect paper town. 

A couple of minutes later, a soft voice calls out, “Steve?”

Turning my head, I’m relieved to see Miranda standing there, looking exhausted but otherwise okay. On closer inspection, though, I notice that she’s still in her pyjamas and the glint of metal alerts me that she’s wearing handcuffs. A burly officer is restraining her and I fight the urge to run to her and hold her close until she knows that everything’s okay. Before I can say anything to her, the officer addresses me. “Steven Grant Rogers?”

“That’s me,” I reply, offering my hand for a handshake. He raises an eyebrow and my gaze falls to where he’s holding the cuffs and I retract my hand. 

“This way, sir,” he orders, gesturing with his free left hand to a room down the corridor. Once inside, he nudge the door shut with his foot and sits down on a chair, pushing Miranda rather aggressively into the chair beside him. 

“Hey,” I exclaim, “that was uncalled for, innocent until proven guilty.”

“Take a seat,” he says, ignoring my comment. It doesn’t matter, though, Miranda smiles gratefully at me. 

The officer flicks through a file and I take the opportunity to look around the bleak room. The peeling blue walls are made more weary by the yellow glow struggling to come in through the dusty window. 

Under the table, I feel something brush against my leg and I look up to see Miranda trying to mouth something at me.  _ Thank you. _

I give her a tight-lipped smile.  _ Are you okay?  _

The subtle shake of her head sends me off kilter.  _ This guy’s a right bully.  _ She jabs her head towards the officer, who pulls a few papers from the file and closes it, looking back at me. 

“Okay, a few things to mention. One, this is not an interrogation, two, you have the right to remain silent and not answer any question, three,” he drones on for a little while and I completely zone out until the expectant glare I get prompts me to speak. 

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” 

“How do you know Miss Hartley and for how long?” he repeats, obviously annoyed that I wasn’t paying attention. 

“I’m a family friend and we now live together,” I reply smoothly. “We’ve been housemates for about a weeks or so.”

There’s a brief silence as he makes notes. “What do you do-” 

He’s interrupted by the door being flung open and a frazzled young woman rushing in, tea sloshing over a mug in one hand and a manila files piled on the other. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she apologises, sliding into the chair beside mine. “What question are we up to?”

The surly male officer says nothing so Miranda helpfully supplies, “Question 2,  _ what do you do for a living?” _

“Thank you, dear,” the woman smiles. “I’m Francesca. David was covering for me but I’m here now so you can go. Thank you,” she nods at David who stands and exits without a word. “Right, sorry about that. I hope he wasn’t too rude, his mother was recently robbed and now he treats all suspects with triple the contempt. So what do we have here?”

She spends another minute flicking through the papers and I wiggle my eyebrows at Miranda who smiles in return. 

“It says here that Miss Hartley has been arrested on suspicion of collusion in a robbery of a Mr Garde ñ era, a wealthy hispanic businessman. This is based on an eye-witness account of a neighbour, who has chosen to remain anonymous. You, Mr Rogers, are here because Ms Hartley has named you to provide her alibi. First we have to ask a few routine questions.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Oh, I’m… I’m not currently employed,” I stutter, “but I used to be in the army.”

“Date of birth?”

“That’s… complicated,” I say, twidling my thumbs. 

Francesca looks up confused. “How so?”

“My official date of birth is July 4, 1918,” I tell her, rubbing the back of my neck. 

“I’m sorry, I think I heard that wrong.”

“You didn’t,” I laugh nervously. “You may also know me as, um, as Captain America?”

Her eyes shoot up to meet mine, wide with shock and… awe? “ _ The  _ Captain America?”

“The one and only,” I tell her, smiling. 

“I heard about you in the news!” she exclaims, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket and handing me her pen. “Would you mind signing this?”

“Uh, sure.” I sign the paper and hand it back. Glancing at Miranda, I see that her eyes are still sparkling good-naturedly, despite the situation. “So, Francesca, my friend and I have a lot to get on with today so I’m just going to tell you that she was with me all of last night.”

“What exactly were you doing?” she asks, regaining her composure and professionalism. 

“We spent most of the day outside in the garden and only came in when it was impossibly cold. She fell asleep on the couch in the living room and I thought about moving her but she looked peaceful so I stayed with her for a few hours and went to bed at around midnight.”

The scratching of her pen fills the room and I catch Miranda staring at me with an expression I can’t identify but when she catches me looking, she flushes and looks away. 

“Where were you both between 1900 hours and 2100 hours?”

“In the garden,” I reply with absolute certainty. That’s when Miranda had gotten deliriously happy over some award her company was up for and had started doing cartwheels across the grass. 

“Okay,” Francesca says definitively, shutting her book and reaching in her pocket for the cuff keys. “Thank you guys for you’re time. Miranda, you’re free to go but we may call you back at some point.” She clicks the cuffs open and Miranda stands, twisting her wrists and wincing. 

“These things sure aren’t comfortable,” she tells me as we nod our thanks and leave the station. “Seriously though, thanks for coming down, I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I assure her as we near the house, “you’re letting me stay in your house.”

“Yeah, well, still.”

“Miranda,” I stop walking and she turns to look at me, confused. “You are a lovely, considerate woman who is letting a virtual stranger live with her. I don’t owe you anything.”

I take a step closer and feel a rush of pleasure when her breath hitches. 

“Okay,” she whispers breathlessly. 

My heart is pounding like a drum in my chest and everything around me fades away as I focus on the gorgeous lady in front of me. Just as I’m about to take a leap of faith and close the gap, a fox howls and the spell is broken. She shakes her head, as if dazed, and opens the front door, murmuring something about cleaning and rushing off. 


End file.
